End of the Dream
by sugarkid
Summary: Chaos theory dictates that something as small and insignificant as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world. If that is the case, then imagine what damage a dance can do in the grand scheme of things. (Rumple/Milah)


Rumple had never given a girl flowers before, a fact that ate away at his nerves and made him tremble on the spot. He peeped around the corner and willed himself to step forward, only to shrink back against the cold stone. He stared down at the white flowers in his hands, flowers that had looked so pretty only a matter of minutes before, but had started to wilt from the heat of his sweaty palms.

_I can't give her those,_ he thought. _Oh, what was I thinking?_

He began to wish that he had never mentioned to the spinsters that he had yet to choose a date for the Harvest Dance. He should have known that gossip and conspiracy was the only thing to keep them otherwise entertained and the prospect of young love was the perfect mixture of both. Within a matter of minutes they had come to the conclusion that there was a milkmaid about his age who they were almost certain had no date either.

"Her name is Milah," the oldest had said. "And she's such a pretty thing."

They were quite correct. She _was_ a pretty thing. Rumple could hear her laughing with the other milkmaids from his position around the corner and it only increased his nerves. He wished he hadn't been so taken by the idea of her, wished he hadn't allowed them to invite her over to spin. She was exactly as breathtaking as they described, but not very talented with a spinning wheel and the spinsters had nodded at one another most knowingly before sitting her down beside him, offering him up as her tutor. He would have settled for watching her delicate hands moving over the spindle, never saying a word were it not for the spinsters motioning for him to say something. _Anything_.

After she left and thanked him for the lesson, the spinsters had been most convinced that she was taken with him – an idea that gave him butterflies in his stomach and kept him awake at night. The spinsters were much older than he was and had far more life experience in those sorts of things, but still he found it difficult to believe that a girl perfect in every way could _possibly_ be taken with him.

What if she refused him and laughed at his flowers, just like she was laughing with the other milkmaids right then? He was not sure if he could handle the ridicule. Everyone would remember him as the man Milah had rejected and laugh at his expense in the tavern.

He turned to leave, catching sight of the white flowers that he had not thought to toss aside. He had seen her admiring them on the hillsides, stroking the petals with the gentle touch usually reserved for lovers. He had racked his brains for some excuse to approach her and ask why she loved them so much, but he always feared that she would be angry that he had interrupted her or tell him that she was waiting for a _real _lover. The spinsters had told him that it was far more likely that she went to the hillside to think wistfully of him and that idea made his stomach turn over and over on itself.

Rumple stared at the wilting flowers in his hand and wondered what would happen if he never approached her or asked her to the dance. Was she as lovesick as he was? He gripped the stalks of the flowers and stepped forward.

* * *

Everyone who knew Milah, from her parents to the other milkmaids, found great hilarity in telling her what a dreamer she was. Her mama claimed that the midwives thought her dead for five minutes as a babe, for she was so busy lapsing off into daydream that she forgot to cry. Milah let them laugh, sometimes even joining in herself, for the word 'dream' was wrong for the things she imagined. Dreams were flights of fancy; things that would never exist. Milah only ever imagined things that existed in the same world as she did and when most people thought she was daydreaming about being a boring old princess, she was actually plotting out the path she had to take to get there.

Ever since she was a little girl, Milah had been fascinated by stories of pirates and buried treasure. Traders sometimes visited their little village to sell their wares – boxes with elaborate writing carved into the wood and spices that smelled so strong that she sneezed at the memory alone. Perhaps in the hopes that she might be persuaded to buy something, the traders told her all about the countries they had visited in order to find their wares and she would listen, enraptured, at stories of places where rivers ran dry or overflowed and took over the land completely. She dreamed of visiting those places and told herself that when she grew older she would run away and join the crew of a merchant vessel. She wanted to be one of those mysterious strangers that fascinated and terrified villagers and made a fortune from their wares. Even as a small child, tucked up in bed with her sisters, she had plans.

There was one skill she had always wanted to perfect before leaving to sail the seas and that was spinning. She had seen the luxurious, ludicrously priced threads and fabrics that salesmen brought back from exotic countries and knew how much extra gold she could get if she did all of the appropriate spinning herself. Spinning, however, was not a talent she was blessed with. Her fingers were too unsteady, her posture all wrong and more often than not she bled all over the thread. She was glad when the old women finally sat her down with Rumplestiltskin, the boy that they had raised between them and taught to spin from infancy. It was unusual for a boy to spin and he was a far more patient teacher than the spinsters, remaining silent even as she cut her fingers or slouched. Even when she lost her temper and felt like kicking aside the spinning wheel, he remained calm, never once complaining when she asked for a second, third and fourth demonstration.

The night of the Harvest Dance, when everyone was distracted by drink and song, was the night she had chosen to make her grand escape. Over the past few months she had packed away whatever dresses she could afford to hide, along with a few spare coins for the journey. She sat on the hills to keep track of which road she ought to take when the moment was right, memorizing it so that she would recognize it even in the dark. She had not accepted any date to the dance or even picked out a dress, for she believed it to be a pointless venture. She would leave before dawn anyway.

The other milkmaids enjoyed discussing how many offers they had had from village boys, all wishing to take them to the Harvest Dance. Milah rolled her eyes at the docile way they weighed up the pros and cons of each prospective date, knowing better than to ask her opinion. The older milkmaids listened in, occasionally giving their own opinion about who would make a better husband.

She stood up from her stool and stretched, glancing up at the clouds. She had made a habit of doing so ever since she had pinned down a date to leave. A rainstorm was not the end of the world, but it would mean wearing different shoes and possibly even retiring from the dance earlier. As her back and shoulders relaxed, she noticed that the other two milkmaids had fallen silent and the reason for that could only have been the boy approaching them.

It was Rumpelstiltskin, she noticed, looking remarkably like a mouse crawling into feline territory. He only took small steps and, when he saw that all eyes were on him, attempted to make himself as small as possible. Milah's heart sank when she saw that he had flowers in his hand. He was going to ask one of the other girls to the dance, no doubt and she could not bear the thought of them rejecting him as they so surely would.

Except he did not approach the other milkmaids and instead walked straight over to her, muttering something under his breath and pushing the flowers towards her. Her chest tightened when she realized that they were her favourite flowers from the hilltop, flowers that she loved to pretend were lilies from some distant isle and she could sell for a fortune. She glanced across at the other milkmaids, watching as the younger ones looked on in interest and the older ones motioned for her to accept them. Slowly, for she was sure that any sudden movements and the boy in front of her would run for his life, she took the flowers from him and gave him her thanks.

"I-I-I was w-w-wondering if y-y-y-ou might," Rumple began, blushing a furious red and staring at the floor. "Dance. W-with me."

"You want me to go to the dance with you?" she asked and he nodded his head in response, incapable of looking her in the eye.

Milah knew that turning him down was the same as stabbing him in the heart and, ordinarily, that would not have bothered her. She had turned down copious other young men who had sought to dance with her, after all, without batting so much as an eyelid. No. What made turning Rumple down so difficult was the fact that she pitied him. He was so much skinnier than the other boys, with no brothers to teach him how to fact and his skill with a spinning wheel had earned him the less than flattering nickname 'spindleshanks'. Milah could not help but remember how kind and patient he had been while teaching her to spin. Rejecting him under such circumstances, with an audience to boot, would be cruel of her.

"I would be happy to join you at the dance," she said, smiling and tucking the white flowers into her hair.

It was worth it just to see the boy so happy and Milah told herself that it didn't matter. Her plans still had not changed. _One dance._ That was all he expected of her. One dance and she could hurry back to her house and grab her things, leaving a little later than she had planned, but that did not matter much.

Milah smiled as she watched his retreating back.

It was not as if one dance could change anything.


End file.
